


Kuroshitsuji Raito (黒執事月)

by booklovertwilight



Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Kuroshitsuji Fusion, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Murder, Death Notes (the object) exist in the Kuroshitsuji universe, Demon Yagami Light, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Human L Lawliet, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inaccurate Christianity, Knowledge of Kuroshitsuji is not necessary, L and Misa are engaged but in an arranged marriage between noble families sort of way, L's little found family, M/M, Mentioned it once in the first chapter and basically never again but tagging it anyway, Mystery, Nobility, POV L (Death Note), Religious Cults, Slow Burn, The author has made an attempt at historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booklovertwilight/pseuds/booklovertwilight
Summary: In another world where there are:shinigami with absurdly complicated rulesets for who to kill and how,a black-haired British detective with an unexpectedly deadly butler,and a supernatural contract between an ambitious young man and a being from another realm...Presenting "Kuroshitsuji Raito" (or "Black Butler Light"), where I drop the main characters from Death Note into the Kuroshitsuji universe and see what happens.
Relationships: Amane Misa & L, L/Yagami Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. His Butler, Summoned

**Author's Note:**

> You know that song from the DN soundtrack, "Kuroi Raito"? Yeah, that's pretty much the entire inspiration for this fic.
> 
> [Cover art on my Tumblr.](https://booklovertwilight.tumblr.com/post/640158546115411968/kuroshitsuji-au) My art for any given chapter will be linked from the end-notes of that chapter.

The room smelled of smoke, and the damp heat of the thirty-odd bodies which crowded around, concealed under white robes and feathered masks. The fireplace was close enough to hear, but too far away for L to feel its warmth, leaving him sweaty but cold against the smooth stone altar. The flickering candlelight stuttered and jerked up the walls, toward the tall ceiling. The shadows made it unclear how many people were here. 

A shiver ran through L, bringing goosebumps to his skin, exposed completely to the cold excluding the metal manacles which bit into his wrists and ankles.

He had never been a believer in any such thing as rock-bottom, a point when things cannot get worse. The uncaring universe makes no check to see if something is too terrible, before allowing it to happen. Perhaps there was some perverse hope in that. In the idea that what had happened to him so far was not the worst that could happen to a person, no matter how many times he’d been stripped, chained, beaten, raped. Perhaps there was also hope in the certainty that this time, this day, he was going to die.

Or maybe, hope was the hollow terror that burned in the center of his chest, strangling the adrenaline in his veins. Because at some point, they became the same, didn’t they? There was no way out where he didn’t have to fight his way through the crowd of cultists. And there was no way to fight before he fled the chains.

L breathed evenly, hands unclenched, muscles forcefully relaxed. If he were going to make an escape, it wouldn’t do for his captors to have any reason for suspicion. But if he was going to make an escape, he would need to think of something  _ fast _ . Because his thin fingers which intermittently fidgeted with the lock to his cuffs were not finding any way at all of unlocking them, and amid the low chanting of the robed figures, he could hear the steady  _ shhhk-shhhk-shhhk _ of someone sharpening a blade.

The sound stopped.

White shadows parted with a shuffle, revealing a strong-jawed man, imposing, with broad, muscular shoulders.

Something shifted from under his cloak. Metallic. Silver, and glinting in the firelight.

A dagger.

L’s breath stuttered as his eyes darted from the man’s face to the blade in his hand, then back, trying to find some point of leverage in the black mole under one corner of the man’s thin lips, or the dagger’s intricately-carved hilt. L’s mouth opened, but it was dry, bereft of words. He had nothing, there was nothing he could say.

The pervasive chanting rose in fervor - its words in Greek, not Latin - but the meaning failed to register. They didn’t matter; the chill, razor edge of the blade did.

L’s pulse pounded in his ears as the blade lowered. Hot, thin scratches dragged across his skin, but the edge was so sharp it was impossible to focus on them. His skin was red, the scratches were white; they itched. 

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t remember how.

L knew better than to pray. There was no god. And any deity who would allow this to happen would certainly not be answering. But the desperation remained. His hands clenched in their restraints, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he called out within his mind in a last-ditch hope.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, there was only darkness. Darkness, and a voice.

“Who is it that summons me?” The voice was masculine, but not deep; smooth and sharp, like honey and lemon-zest. And it had a bored, haughty air, as though it belonged to a king who had grown weary of people throwing themselves at his feet.

“ _ Summoned _ you?” L was confused, and angry. “Is that what they were trying to do?”

“Clearly.” When the man - the  _ demon, _ L realized - spoke, his voice saturated the vast, empty blackness, coming from no one direction, but all at once. “But the summoner is not the sacrificer, but the sacrificed, and so, I am here.” Something about the disembodied voice implied a bow. “Tell me your name.”

“I’m L,” he replied, because whatever he’d been called before, that was who he was now. He remembered that letter, even through all the drugging and torture, because it was the monogram on the ring he wore, even now, on his right index finger. Maybe his captors had left it to him as a memory, a mockery, of who he’d been. The aristocratic heir of a noble house, now reduced to their plaything. Their sacrifice.

Appearing above him, where he still lay prone in space, were white, feathery, paperlike things; they came into existence like dust becoming visible in a shaft of light, and floated down around him into a sea below. Moving slowly, as everything seemed to in this timeless space. And, as L looked around, he noticed in his periphery a tangled branch-like perch, which descended past the edge of his vision. Upon this perch rested a bird with black feathers, and piercing, glowing, red eyes.

“L,” said the raven. He seemed to approve of the name, because he said it again. “L. If you could have anything, what would you wish for?”

_ Anything, _ he thought.  _ If I could have anything at all, what would it be? _ But even as he thought it, he knew the consideration was futile. There really only was one answer. Whatever he had thought he wanted before, it was moot now. “Revenge,” he said, voice low with fury. “On the ones who did this to my parents, and to me.”

There was a quiet huff, like the raven was disappointed by such a plebian request.

“What,” L’s voice was sardonic. “Is that not good enough for you, demon?”

That remark seemed to pique the demon’s interest again, because he replied with a tone of intrigue: “No. That will do. I can grant your request. But you should think carefully about this. If you enter a contract with me, your soul will not be able to go to heaven, nor hell.”

As the demon spoke, a square of thick red fabric snapped into the air just above him, as though unfurled from an unseen source. It hovered there, fluttering in an unfelt breeze, without touching skin. L couldn’t move to grab or even touch it; he was held immobile, as he had been bound to the altar. 

“Fine,” he said. He hadn’t been aware he had any such thing as a soul, but regardless, he wouldn’t have any use for it.

“You’re certain?” asked the demon, tone flat, like he was reading a line off a script whose ending he much preferred to get to quickly.

“Yes,” L said, because he also wanted to skip to the end. He’d been certain from the moment he’d awoken in this strange space. “Enough repetitive questions. I won’t reconsider just because you asked twice.”

A hollow, empty chuckle. “Then I won’t ask again. You want to form a contract with me, L? Fine, then. So be it.”

The feathers, or papers, or whatever they were, flew upward all at once, although there was no wind or shifting of air; as they rose, they blocked L’s view of the raven. The fabric descended to touch his bare chest, wrapping around him like a flag thrown around its pole in a windstorm, binding his body the way this contract would bind his soul. And a moment later, as all else vanished into blackness, and the candlelight began to reappear as a fuzzy haze, a man now stood at his side.

* * *

L heard, as background noise, the shouting, then screaming, as the robed figures were, one by one, destroyed. The demon broke every one of them with the ease of casting an arm aside to knock a collection of wine-glasses off a table.

When the room was silent, and cold - when the walls and floors were streaked with red - only then did the demon in black turn to L. He went to the top and bottom of the altar, breaking apart the metal manacles which bound L’s wrists and ankles like snapping a bar of chocolate. And then, he lifted L into his arms, and carried him away.

Only then, did L pass into unconsciousness, his cheek pressed against the demon’s chest.

* * *

When he awoke, they had come to an old room lit only by a few dim wall-mounted candles. L was curled into a ball in the demon’s lap, one arm slung lazily over his shoulder.

He bristled, remembering the last arms to hold him like that, and got up quickly, backing a few steps away.

The demon had changed from a mass of ink-black mist with glowing red eyes, to something which looked very close to human. He was a young, handsome man of Asian-seeming descent, with auburn hair and a slight, pointed face, wearing a sleek black suit. The only things still off were his hands - a little too big, and a little too pointed at the fingertips - and the eyes - still glowing bright, brilliant red.

His head inclined. “I see you’re awake.”

Before anything else could come to mind, L said, “Thank you.” He drew further around himself the rough white cloth he’d been provided, and asked, “What happens now?”

“Now,” said the demon, “we are both marked. After that, you give me the detailed terms of your contract.”

“Marked,” L echoed. He took another two steps back, these ones more casual, and leaned against the wall. “How?”

“Me, with a name. And you, with a seal.”

“You don’t  _ have _ a name,” L said. “I choose it for you.” He looked at the demon, who nodded. “Very well.”

From his black waistcoat, the demon pulled a slip of paper and a pen. He handed both to L. “Write it.”

L smiled as he went to the table, beside which the demon sat, and set the paper down. He wrote it out immediately. The inspiration for the name had come from some combination of the demon’s origins, his human appearance, and the role he was to play in L’s life. When he’d finished, it read, “夜神月”.

“Yagami Tsuki,” the demon read the kanji aloud, with a raised eyebrow.

“The first name-” he pointed to the last character, “-is read as ‘Light’.”

That elicited a throaty chuckle. “I see. So then, my name is Light Yagami, written with the kanji for moon, night, and god.” The hooded eyes looked up at L. “Any particular reason for that choice?”

“Yes.” L’s smirk said,  _ but I won’t tell you what it is. _

The demon -  _ Light _ \- sighed. He snatched the paper from the table and stood, pacing a semicircle until he again faced L. “Now, for your mark. The location of the seal is your choice, but I will warn you, to place it is painful. Still… a more visible seal means a stronger bond.”

L turned to him, leaning slightly back against the table. The burn on the left side of his chest, just at the bottom of his ribcage, itched under the cloth, but he restrained himself from scratching it. “I don’t care,” he said. “Give me the strongest one possible.”  _ I’ve been in a lot of pain, this month. What’s a little more? _

An uncanny grin split Light’s face as he leaned down. “Alright, L.”

When Light reached toward him, his left hand seemed to blacken, like it was rotting, or charring to ash. But the fingers were strong as they gripped L’s head, and the palm was smooth as it pressed against L’s right eye.

L screamed at the searing, stabbing pain, like a red-hot poker had been driven through his eye and straight to the back of his skull. His hands took fistfulls of fabric as he collapsed to his knees, the pain radiating through his head, down his neck and shoulders. But just when he felt like his head would split in half, suddenly, the pain subsided, and was gone.

Light looked down at him where he knelt, hyperventilating and sheathed with sweat, with a condescending smile. “I did say it would be painful.”

“Shut up,” L glared.

“It is beautiful, though.” Light’s smile turned genuine as his fingers traced along L’s jaw. “You should have a look.”

He batted away the demon’s hand and climbed to his feet. But, swaying slightly from lingering weakness, he still made his way to a wall-mounted mirror.

Below his rat’s-nest of grimy black hair, one of L’s wide grey eyes had turned a deep red-violet. There was no pupil visible any longer - only the impression of a dull, pink pentacle. “Light,” he said, but paused in surprise. His newly-marked eye had glowed, briefly but vibrantly, in acknowledgement of the name. 

“Yes?” 

L turned around, walked back, and sat in the heretofore-unused chair opposite Light’s, with one foot propped up on the seat. “You’re right,” he said. “It does look nice. Though, I won’t be able to wander around in public like this.”

“Pity,” Light said, even as he nodded in agreement. “L, tell me, what are your specific terms for me to serve you?”

_ Terms… He’s asked me this only after we’ve all but finalized this contract, so I imagine I can ask for anything. _ L smiled, running his thumb along his bottom lip. _ Well, let’s begin with the obvious. _ “Term one,” he began, “I can order anything from you, at any time, and you have to oblige, no matter how you feel about it.” 

Light inclined his head, as acknowledgement and an invitation to continue.

“Term two…” he continued, “you will never tell a lie to me, either directly or by omission. But I won’t ruin  _ all _ your fun by forcing you to reveal any information I might want.”

“I appreciate the courtesy,” Light bit out. He frowned, leaning against his palm with fingers splayed across his forehead and cheek.

“Term three… hm.” He bit off a corner of his thumbnail, lowered his hand. “You’ll protect my life, at all costs. This includes anything that could cause permanent psychological damage, as well as physical, but doesn’t  _ specifically  _ prohibit non-life-threatening injury.”

The brief anger had vanished again under a veil of impassiveness. “That, at least, you didn’t need to ask for. I do have my own reasons for keeping you alive, until you achieve your goal.”

L raised an eyebrow, to ask,  _ which are? _

“When I’ve helped you avenge yourself and your family...” Light said, staring at him intently. His lips stretched into a wide smile. “I will consume your soul.”

“Ah,” L lifted a finger, “So demons create contracts with humans so they can eat their souls. I had been wondering. And… there are certain things a person can do to make their soul  _ tastier _ , am I right?”

Light’s hand lowered to the table; his eyebrows raised. “That’s correct.” He looked L over briefly, seeming impressed. 

L briefly considered the idea of asking about what, exactly, those things are, but then Light rapped his fingers against the wooden tabletop, and he decided against doing so, for now.

“Is that all your terms?” 

“Definitely not,” L scoffed. “But, it occurs that I might want to draw up a proper legal contract, in writing.”

“Feel free,” Light said, although he did not move to give L any paper, or return the pen he’d used before. “But negotiating with a demon is not like doing so with a human. We are bound to the spirit of the terms, not the letter of their wording.”

L drew his other leg up to his chest, curled into the chair fully. He rearranged the cloth so he could fold his arms over his knees. “Interesting,” he said. “Fine. Term four, you will act as my butler, as well as the manager of my estate. Feel free to delegate as much of this as you want, so long as my family’s reputation isn’t marred, but finding any other household servants is your responsibility. Term five…”

So it went on through all twelve of his terms, and when he’d finished speaking he stood from his chair the way he’d seen his father do at the conclusion of a business deal. 

As though picking up on L’s mood, Light stood, as well, and turned to face him.

“There,” L’s thumb fiddled against the side of his ring, under the cloth. “Is that it?”

“Not quite,” said Light. “The contract isn’t final until you issue your first order.”

L cast aside the cloth, and took a step forward as it fell to his feet. Not lifting his head, only looking up from below his brows. “Light, I order you:”

As he spoke those words, he could  _ feel _ his right eye glowing, with a slight burning around the edges of his eyelid. And at the same time, there was a tightness through his head, like a cord connected to that eye was wrapping itself around his skull, or his brain - even, perhaps, his  _ mind, _ on some disturbingly abstract level. The burning, the aching of contained power vibrated in his head, and he knew his next words would make it manifest.

“Bring me to the Lawliet estate.”

Light brought a white-gloved hand to his chest. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head. And as his bright red eyes looked up at L, shining with mirth as though this whole situation was a joke to which only he knew the punchline, his voice filled with a jarring juxtaposition of longing and hatred, and he said:

“Yes, Master.”


	2. His Butler, Cunning

Footsteps clicked on the hardwood floor, promptly accompanied by a metallic slide of drawn curtains. The sunlight that came through the window was warm even through L’s blankets and nightshirt, but the body whose hands worked the curtain-ties blocked the harshest of the light. 

Well, perhaps not the harshest. Perhaps that honor belonged to the man himself.

“Good morning, Master,” greeted the voice of lemon-zest and honey. “You’ve slept for eighteen hours, but it’s time to get up.” 

_Eighteen hours. That makes it 8 am._ L opened his eyes, which came to rest on a black waistcoat with a delicate silver chain trailing from its watch-pocket. 

“For breakfast today,” continued the voice, as the scent of Earl Grey filled the air, “we have a lightly-poached salmon accompanied by a delicate mint salad. In addition, I can also offer toast, scones, or pain de campagne.”

“A scone, please.” L let out an unstifled, jaw-cracking yawn as he threw the covers off his chest and sat up. He reached out his hand blindly, accepted the fine China saucer that was placed in it, and took a sip of tea to wash the taste of sleep from his mouth.

“Understood.” There was a clink as the teapot was placed back onto the silver tray. “On to your schedule for today. In two hours, you will be meeting with Mr. Hughes, the authority on the history of the Roman Empire. This evening, Mr. Damiano from the Poseidon Company will be paying you a visit.”

 _Damiano,_ L recalled the name as he took another long sip of tea. _He’s in charge of my stuffed animal factory in India. A sleazy Italian man, but good with business. I wonder what he wants. Probably some kind of upsell or deal._ He set the teacup on his bedside table by a set of darts, and threw off the covers. “When will he arrive?”

White-gloved hands slid to the sides of a black wool tailcoat as the butler rounded the bed, then went to work, sliding off L’s nightshirt and buttoning up a proper collared shirt, tying a blue silk Western tie in a neat bow. “Mr. Damiano will be arriving at the manor at 6 pm, my lord. We’ll be sure to offer the finest hospitality the Lawliet family has to offer, of course.”

L nodded, watching his butler’s perfectly-coiffed auburn hair as he helped L into the rest of his clothes, sliding black socks up to his knees and sliding on brown leather loafers. “That tea you made, it’s from Jacksons of Piccadilly.” 

“Perceptive, Master. As always.” After combing and tidying L’s hair, and tying the strings of his eyepatch behind his head, the gloved hands returned to their place at his butler’s sides. He stood and turned to leave. “I’ll wait for you in the dining room.” 

L took a dart from the end-table and chucked it at the back of the man’s head, saying at the same time: “Light.”

The auburn locks shifted aside as two gloved fingers plucked the dart from the air. “Yes, sir?”

“I changed my mind. I’ll have pain de campagne with breakfast.” And with a hint of sickeningly-sweet disdain, he added, “ _Thank you_.”

Added to the usual mix of reverence, indifference, and hatred with which Light typically spoke to L was a smug satisfaction. “Of course, Master. I exist only to serve you.”

* * *

L sat crouched at the head of the otherwise-empty dining room table, myopically focused on spreading softened butter from a China dish onto a slice of pain de campagne with a shining silver butter knife. His long, thick raven hair was combed into the closest semblance of order Light could pull off. His red-velvet-padded chair was haloed by the morning sunlight through the large arched window behind him. 

Satisfied that his master’s needs were attended to, at least for now, Light turned his attention to the other servants of this household, who were standing at attention… or the closest semblance they seemed capable of. That is to say, Wedy was loitering with one hand on her hip and the other holding a smouldering cigar between her lips, Aiber was leaning against the wall with his shirt half-open, and Beyond was sprawled across the floor with his fingers in a jar of jam.

Light’s sigh of annoyance was almost perfunctory at this point. “Aiber, are you finished weeding the garden? Wedy, have you washed the bedding? Beyond, how about preparing dinner?” He glanced between them, but got only oscillating ‘well…’s. “We don’t have time to laze around. This manor has to be spotless, and dinner has to be perfect for our guest. Come on, get to it.”

As all three made noncommittal ‘yeah, ok’ noises and filed out of the room, Light shook his head. He understood well enough the reason L had taken on these people, and the reason he refused to hire on any staff who were better equipped as proper maids and gardeners and cooks, but it was still inconvenient to try to wrangle any kind of real housework out of these people.

He knew it would be even worse to leave them to their own devices, though. They might fall back into their old (illegal) habits, or laze around causing trouble. At least if he put them to work, he could keep a better eye on them.

“Light,” L said from behind him, making him turn.

“What is it, my lord?”

Not lifting his eyes from his salmon fillet, he said, “I noticed on my way here that the painting of my parents is still hanging above the landing in the front hall. Take it down.”

Light smiled. L had been steadily removing any remnants of his family from this house over the course of the past two years - burning photographs, tearing up paintings, throwing out scrapbooks and albums - and that giant portrait was the last, most ostentatious thing. He was glad to see his young master relinquishing any sentimentality he might have left. “Sure,” he said with an easy nod, “It’ll be done by tonight.”

“Thank you very much.”

Light inclined his head in courtesy. “Anything else before I get on with preparing for your dinner tonight, Master?”

“No. You can go. Thanks again.”

Light chuckled wryly as he left the room. “No need to thank me, my lord,” he said - probably not loud enough for L to hear, but it didn’t matter. L thanked him all the time specifically because he knew it annoyed him. If it had annoyed him more to _not_ be thanked, then L would stop.

These subtle power plays between them were much of what Light found so intriguing about this boy, this young man, this noble heir. They were a large part of the reason he’d chosen to take this deal, enter this contract, after several centuries - no, millennia - of absence from the human world. From their very first meeting, L wasn’t afraid of him, nor did he revere him. He saw Light the way Light saw everyone: as a means to an end. And so, while it was certainly frustrating to be deliberately irritated, manipulated, and constantly taken for granted, Light wouldn’t trade this human for anyone or anything else. At this point, the extraordinary quality of his soul was almost a side benefit.

* * *

Mr. Hughes paid an uneventful visit to L, who took the meeting in the sitting room as usual. Besides this, and bringing L several cakes and parfaits, Light’s day was predominantly spent alone. He polished all the silverware, cleaned and dusted every room in the mansion, and gathered a bouquet of the finest white roses from the back garden to replace the one which was just starting to wilt in L’s study.

While on his way to the kitchen, however, was when Light began to realize something was wrong. He picked up his pace slightly when he began to smell burning, but slowed again when Beyond stumbled out the door, coughing and wheezing. 

“Beyond…” Light sounded disappointed because he was, “What have you done?”

“I thought it’d cook faster if I used a flamethrower!” he defended, miming the process of taking a flamethrower to a premium cut of meat. Then he deflated, slouching over. “Sorry.”

Light rolled his eyes, strolling over to the kitchen. Even the inside of the door, he noted as he turned the warm handle, was thoroughly singed. As his eyes drifted to the soot-black countertop he found that, of course, all the food was absolutely ruined. “Beyond…”

But before he could get out another word, the door burst open behind them. “Light,” said Aiber’s _preparing to relay bad news_ tone.

At almost the same time, Wedy _also_ said his name, in a similar tone, but she continued: “Aiber’s an idiot, he ruined the garden.”

Light pressed his fingers lightly against his forehead in an attempt to smother his rage. “How? And, Aiber, you had something else to say, spit it out.”

Leaning against the singed door frame: “I thought it would be easier if I used the strongest weed killer we had in the house,” he said. “It, eh, didn’t go as planned, shall we say.” He made an elegant circular motion with his fingers. “I’d come indoors to ask Wedy what to do when I heard a crash and found out she’d broken the tea set.”

Wedy heaved a sigh, like the tea set had committed some kind of great sin against queen and country and she’d had no choice but to exterminate it. “Yes, well, I was carrying too many things at once and bumped the cabinet.”

Light shook his head - he couldn’t be all that upset, since this was a somewhat regular occurrence. However, usually only _one_ of the three of them messed something up at one time, _and_ they didn’t usually have an important guest coming over in - he fished out his pocketwatch - three hours.

“It’s alright,” he said, although it wasn’t. “All of you, please get to work fixing the kitchen Beyond destroyed. I’ll handle the rest.”

“You got it,” Aiber said with a wink.

“Yeah, alright,” Wedy said, but her grateful tone betrayed the noncommittal words.

“If you figure out how to work this, I’m gonna be impressed,” Beyond flicked his fingers in Light’s direction with a cheeky grin, but as he opened the door to the kitchen, his expression softened. “Thanks for not being mad.” The door swung shut behind him.

 _Okay,_ Light thought as he walked away, taking this in stride because he was, first of all, a positive thinker, and second (and more importantly), a Lawliet butler. _Say that I know for certain that in three hours, Mr. Damiano comes to the manor and is overwhelmed with awe at L Lawliet’s hospitality. This occurs despite the fact that we are missing our best tea set, the front garden is thoroughly wilted, and all the food I bought is ash. How did this happen?_

* * *

_Three hours later._

A carriage pulled up the road, coming to a halt at the edge of the Lawliet estate’s front courtyard, and Light - who had been waiting - opened its door. The sole of a brown Italian leather dress shoe clicked on the carriage step, and out stepped a square-faced man whose hair and overcoat were the color of dead leaves. The black silk top hat he wore atop that hair looked almost out of place, accompanied as it was by a brown waistcoat and trousers, and a long maroon scarf.

Light had hardly gotten out a “Welcome, sir,” before the man drew in a loud gasp.

“Oh!” he exclaimed across the new garden, “How impressive!”

Where before there had been grass and flowering shrubbery, there was now a flat scape covered with fine white sand, interspersed with variously-sized grey rocks, around which the sand had been raked into swirling patterns. Prominently to one side, water trickled into the open lip of a shishi odoshi fountain.

Light began walking along the elevated wooden walkway that approached the front of the mansion by two right angles. 

Damiano, looking around enthusiastically, followed just behind. “I must say, I am impressed,” he said. “I’d heard of the Lawliet family’s famous hospitality, but this- what would one call this?”

“A stone garden,” Light said, affecting a smile and his usual tone of blank, unreadable politeness. “It’s a traditional feature of Japan.”

The man exclaimed some compliments in Italian, then repeated them in English, and talked at some length about his travels, which had been all over Europe and parts of Asia, but never all the way to that distant island. As he was speaking, he stopped walking, at the second corner of the walkway.

Light nodded, waiting for him to finish, but diverted him as it seemed he was about to ask about Light’s origins. “My lord has decided to have dinner al fresco this evening. Please, allow me to escort you inside until the meal is ready.” He gestured toward the mansion, and gave a nod in its direction.

Damiano nodded, and let himself be led.

* * *

The door slid solidly closed, its latch letting out a soft metallic click, and Bruno Damiano was left in the sitting room of the Lawliet mansion.

The room had a high ceiling, with alabaster walls extending above polished mahogany beadboards. Bookshelves occupied one wall, filled with the sorts of tomes which were mainly decorative, present to show off the owner’s knowledge rather than to actually be read - although one wouldn’t know this, given how dust-free they all were. Against the opposite wall, a large breakfront contained various antiques and fineries, intricately-painted porcelain plates and Waterford crystal glasses, and beside this there hung several sheathed swords. The third wall, which he faced, was all windows, tall and arched, streaming in the early evening light.

Artfully off-center, resting upon a dark forest-green rug, was a wooden table and two high-backed, cushioned chairs. Already sitting in the chair which most easily faced the door, was the Lord Lawliet.

The young man’s mere presence unsettled Damiano, who shuffled across the room and slumped into the chair opposite. The Earl was not sitting properly, but crouched on his feet, with his knees at his chest. The posture was more of a squat than a fetal position; the boy leaning forward as though to pounce. This intimidating impression was not eased by his hair, which lay mostly flat but with defiant flyaways sticking out in various directions, like barely-suppressed anger. It was then worsened by his gaze: the left eye stared unblinkingly from above a dark-violet swelling which spoke of insomnia, and the right was completely hidden by a black silk eyepatch.

“Good evening, Mr. Damiano,” said the voice, low for a boy but high for a man; another point of incongruity.

“Ah, good evening, sir Lawliet,” Damiano said cordially. “I was speaking with your butler, my compliments on your excellent taste in-”

“I’d like to request you call me L.” The boy’s voice cut through Damiano’s platitudes.

Stammering slightly, “Y-yes, of course, L.” He did his best not to let his frustration at using the clearly-fake, single-letter name show; but it was hard not to be nervous under the gaze of that cold, watchful eye.

Abruptly, though, the gaze was off him, as the boy reached forth to a box on the table and retrieved the pieces of a board game. “You had business with me,” he said as his deft fingers set it up. “It must be important to return to England from India.” 

“Yes, it is,” Damiano said. He’d been told, in the past, that the Earl Lawliet should be treated like an adult - that he had the wherewithal to handle adult matters. But from this, it was clear the boy would get bored of discussions of business, and wanted to play a game to alleviate that. Even so… he would keep pitch the same. “I’ve come to propose an expansion.”

“It’s your turn,” the boy said suddenly, proffering a silver top with six numbers on its blue-painted sides. 

Damiano’s eyes fell to the top, which he took, and then to the board. He fought back a self-satisfied smile as he spun the top and moved his piece onto a blank square. Not only was this a game, it was an extremely simple one. Two pieces, a gryphon and a horse, stood at the beginning of a winding path, which was painted with various pictures and interspersed with illustrative white statuettes. There were no choices or divergences: the path led straight to the finish. A game of complete luck, with no skill involved whatsoever.

“The progress we've been making with the East India Factory is quite astonishing,” Damiano lied easily as he watched the boy spin the top and move his piece. “We already have the makings of a top-notch staff.”

“Hm.” L lifted from his lap a leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen. He flipped the book open, writing something down. “Bewitched by the eyes of the dead. I lose a turn.” 

Damiano blinked in confusion. Was the boy taking notes on the meeting, or the board game? Still, he continued, “Right now is the perfect time. We should begin expanding the company and building a strong labor force, it would-”

“Mr. Damiano,” L said. His eye narrowed slightly, almost as though the man had disappointed him. “It’s your turn.”

Growing exasperated at the constant interruptions, Damiano sighed, and returned his eyes very briefly to the board. He took the top, spun it, moved his piece five spaces, and looked back up. “Now, what I wanted to ask you. Perhaps you could contribute another 12,000 pounds to support our expansion?” He leaned back, offering open palms. “I believe it will be quite a profitable venture for you, my lord. And I would consider it an honor to help-”

“You lose a leg in the enchanted forest.” He looked down at his book, scribbled something.

Damiano leaned forward, looking at the space his piece had ended up in. A terrified-looking figure whose leg was in the middle of being severed by a scythe looked back at him. “I see...”

“And it’s your turn again. I lost a turn, remember?” L said, with- was that a smirk on the boy’s face? It was the side of his face in shadow, away from the window, which had briefly twitched, and now it was still again.

“Oh, right.” He spun the top once more. “I move six.”

“No.” L was definitely chiding him now. “You don’t.”

“What?” Attempting not to be angry with a child, especially not a very rich one who he was in the middle of swindling, “But-”

“You lost a leg. So you only move half the spaces - rounded down to the nearest integer.” A smile briefly curled the corners of the earl’s lips, but didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh,” Damiano began to laugh as he moved his piece only three spaces. “This is a gruesome board game!” He was getting a better impression of the earl as this conversation continued. He was a mere child, who liked to meddle in adult affairs, and tried to create an air of fearsomeness with the premises of his board games. “Is there no way for me to restore my leg, then?”

“I’m afraid,” L said, with a tone as though he were explaining to a child who was certain not to understand, “that once something is truly lost, it can never be regained.” His eyes lowered to the board, where he read aloud in a monotone the caption on the space where Damiano’s piece had landed. “Your body is burned by raging flames.” And as he lifted his pen to again write a note - so it was certain, he _was_ only taking notes on the progress of the board game! - a satisfied smirk played at the young earl’s lips.

As Damiano was about to reiterate his pitch, and press the boy for his decision, the door swung open and the butler from before stepped in. “Pardon the interruption,” he said, “but dinner is served.”

“Oh, dining out in that exquisite stone garden?” Damiano smiled, not needing to feign the enthusiasm to support his flattery. For all that its lord was childish, the Lawliet estate _was_ genuinely beautiful. “Shall we go, my lord?”

L climbed out of his chair, the motion strange but practiced to the point of elegance, like that of a boa constrictor ascending a tree trunk. He slid his feet into his shoes, which Damiano realized had been toed off and sitting under the table. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll finish our game afterwards.”

He sat back in his chair, irritated at the prospect of _more_ interruptions as he attempted to get the lord to sign his contract. “Oh, is there any real need to finish it?” He lifted his palms in a shrug. “It's obvious I'm going to lose.”

Walking out of the room, and handing the small notebook to his butler, the boy said, “I’m not in the habit of leaving things partially finished. We’ll return to the game, and play it to the end.”

* * *

L sat at the long table which Light had set upon a large stone platform, overlooking the new stone garden. The sun had set while he had been playing his game of diversions with Damiano, and the scene for their dinner had been lit with delicate paper lanterns strung about the trees.

It was quite clear that this man had underestimated him - as people were wont to do. This was why the people in charge of his factories came to Aiber, instead of to him. But Damiano had been a little too smart for his own good, and he’d come to Aiber demanding to know who _he_ worked for. Lacking the means to lie, of course, the man had pointed at L himself, and as such, this meeting had been arranged. 

L wasn’t yet sure exactly what kind of trouble Damiano had gotten his factory into, but he knew the man had done _something_. There was too much force in his declarations that the factory was perfect and smoothly-running, and then the request for twelve thousand pounds for ‘expansion’... it was extremely suspicious.

Fortunately for L, Damiano was smart enough to find him, but not enough to beat him.

L shook his head mildly, taking another bite of his dinner: a layered bowl of thinly-sliced beef donburi. At the beginning of the meal, their guest had remarked incredulously (“A pile of raw beef? And this is dinner?”) - but Light had swiftly stepped in with a description of the exotic origins of this _particular_ ‘pile of raw beef’. Now, his butler again stood at his side, just out of view, like a shadow.

A flickering glance at his guest told L that the man was absorbed in his meal, the accompanying vintage wine, and the scenery. So, he tapped two fingers twice on the table.

Light gave a quiet, inquisitive hum, which said he was paying attention.

“He is planning something,” L spoke softly, almost without moving his lips. “Tail him. If he _has_ sold my factory…” he trailed off; he didn’t need to tell his butler what to do in that case.

Another hum which lowered and then raised in pitch, to indicate assention.

* * *

To the sitting-room, and to their places around the table which contained the partially-completed board game, L Lawliet and his guest returned.

“That was a thoroughly enjoyable dinner, my lord,” Damiano said honestly, with an easy smile. _No thanks to you, L. But that doesn’t matter. I’ll soon be rid of you._ He reached into his coat to fetch a folded paper: “Now then, about the contract…”

“We finish the game first, Mr. Damiano.” Again, the condescending look. It was much less irritating if Damiano remembered it had likely been learned from those who affected the look towards _him_.

Still, he sighed. “Of course. But… perhaps, you would permit me to use your telephone first?”

L made a show of considering, then nodded, giving him directions. In the hallway, he passed the butler, who was wheeling in a cart of tea - “I’ll be right back,” he said, and made his way.

* * *

Down a stonework staircase, in a small room lit by gas-lamps, a burning cigar crackled. The man between whose teeth it was held spoke boisterously into the telephone. “I'm tired of babysitting this child earl! Next time, you’ll be the one to do this.”

Silent footsteps crept closer, unnoticed.

“Of course, I've already sold off the factory. Now all that's left is to pocket the extra cash.” A pause, then a cackle. “Yes, I'm trying to squeeze more out of the brat right now.”

The tails of a black coat wisped around a corner, out of sight.

“The employees? Who cares about them?” A dismissive bark. “The rest of the formalities are for you to deal with.” 

Red eyes glowed in darkness, and a fountain pen etched a name.

“No, it'll be easy,” said the confident voice of the dead man. “Please, he's only a child.”

* * *

Damiano’s footsteps echoed with soft thuds against the red carpet padding the stairway in the front hall. The sun had set, and the mansion was lit exclusively by lamps and candles, but too few were burning, and the massive, cavernous entryway was half-absorbed by darkness. 

At the top of the staircase was a gigantic, thirty-foot-tall portrait of Lord Lawliet’s late parents. But it, like the rest of the room, was poorly lit, and the flickering candlelight stopped illuminating the painting altogether just before it reached the eyes of the figures. Even after he’d turned away from the painting, their unseen eyes seemed to track him.

As a fearful shudder rolled through him, L’s incongruous voice echoed through his mind. _Bewitched by the eyes of the dead._

Looking quickly over his shoulder, a strong flicker of light made the painting seem to move.

“No,” Damiano said to himself, shaking his head, “No, it’s impossible. I must be seeing things.” A board game, no matter how creepy, couldn’t possibly make any impact on the real world.

Down one hallway, and then another, Damiano went. Behind one door, then another, he looked. Another dark and empty room. Speaking aloud to himself to fill the oppressive silence: “Not this one either.” He shut the door and turned away. “This manor is like a giant maze… I can’t even find the sitting room.”

He took another unfamiliar turn down another identical hallway, this one even more poorly-lit than the last: the lamps at its end were out entirely, making it impossible to tell how long it might be, or what might wait in the dark. As he walked, a board creaked loudly under his shoe, and he stilled.

Something shifted in the shadow.

He stared harder into the darkness, trying to make out any sort of shape.

Suddenly, there was a flash of red.

_Bewitched by the eyes of the dead._

Damiano gasped, and stepped back. Walking slowly toward him now was a man, his face completely obscured by darkness. He stepped lightly, almost floating.

Like a ghost.

Chest hammering with a rapid heartbeat, limbs trembling, Damiano turned and ran back the way he’d come. His footfalls trampled through the carpeted hallways, along with his panicked shouts.

* * *

“Hey, uh, Thierry?” Beyond asked, cautiously, leaning around his side of the painting. “Did you hear that? It sounded like our guest.”

Nonchalantly, he replied, “I’m sure L has it under control.”

* * *

Damiano tore through the darkening mansion, managing to retrace his path back to the front hall. He looked over his shoulder to see if the ghost was still there, but he miscalculated his steps, slipped on a corner of a rug, and crashed down the staircase. Through the massive room, a sickening _crack_ echoed.

As he looked up, somehow there again was the painting, leering over him in the middle of the front hall, blocking the exit. The flat, dead eyes of the figures stared down at him, as their son’s voice echoed through his mind:

_You lose a leg in the enchanted forest._

* * *

“Uhh…” said Beyond, as he and Theirry paused in their carrying the painting through the front hall. He looked at where L’s guest was groaning in pain, sprawled across the staircase with a clearly-broken leg. “That does not look good.”

“As Wedy would say,” Thierry said, pushing his end of the painting forward and forcing Beyond to start walking again, “not our problem.”

* * *

Damiano crawled frantically away from the front hall on three limbs, dragging his unresponsive right leg behind him. He had no idea where he was going, he just needed to get _out of this mansion._

He stopped abruptly, faced with two polished black shoes. He recognized them. The ghost from the hallway- 

But as he looked up, shaking, he recognized the woolen tailcoat, the auburn hair, the reddish amber eyes. It had been the butler! He must have overheard the conversation on the phone, and… done something… even though he hadn’t been present on the staircase at all… 

“You can’t be leaving yet, Mr. Damiano,” he said. The politeness with which he spoke had turned acridly sweet, mocking. “We haven’t served dessert.”

Damiano turned over to drag himself back the opposite direction, but the butler only followed behind at an easy walk. 

“You lost a leg,” he said, “so you only move half the spaces now.”

Something about the low tone of the butler’s voice made Damiano panic, and he clambered painfully to his feet, where he ran a few steps, darted around a corner, and fell as quietly as he could through the first door he came across.

The room was dark and stagnantly warm, smelling of ash. Damiano heard the butler’s footsteps in the hallway outside, and groped around blindly, searching for anywhere to hide. Abruptly his knuckles clanged against a metallic handle. _A cupboard?_ He opened its heavy door to crawl inside, sliding it quietly shut behind him. 

The space was so cramped, he couldn’t even sit upright, and the pain in his broken leg was starting to come to the forefront of his mind as the adrenaline wore off. But he only clamped his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound of his pained, erratic breathing, and waited as the door to the room clicked and swung open, shining a sliver of light through the crack in the door.

Click, click, click, went the butler’s footsteps across the floor, until he came to kneel just outside the door to Damiano’s hiding-place. A shutter clicked open, and the butler’s glaring eyes were visible through its slot. His tongue clicked twice in disdain. “Mr. Damiano, could you not wait until dessert was out of the oven?” 

He slammed back against the wall, which made a disturbingly _metallic_ -sounding thud. Eyes wide and stammering: “T-the oven?!” He slammed his fists against the door, trying to open it, but there was no handle on the inside, and the outside was not giving way. The butler had locked it!

“Please,” he pleaded as the heat blazed up, making his skin prickle immediately with sweat, “Open the door!” He pounded relentlessly, praying that this insane man would see reason-

The corners of the red-amber eyes crinkled with sadistic joy, staring in at his panicked face. And just before the shutter slid closed, he heard the butler say:

“Your body is burned by raging flames.”

* * *

Light walked back down the corridor, toward the back hall, a cheerful swing in his step. He’d had a bit of fun taking care of L’s little inconvenience, as he often did, and now he was on his way to tell Aiber that he would need a workman to come by soon to deep-clean their oven. 

He stopped just at the foot of the stairway, and removed from an inner pocket of his coat the small, leather-bound notebook that had just sealed the fate of their unlucky _guest_. He flipped it open to the most recent page, scanning the words: all in L’s handwriting, except the name, which was in his own.

_Bruno Damiano. Becomes lost while visiting the Lawliet mansion. Sees what he imagines to be a ghost, and breaks his leg while attempting to run away from it. After this, he hides in an oven, and burns to death when it is lit._

Snapping the book closed and sliding it back into his coat, and ascending the staircase, Light began to laugh.


	3. His Butler, Recruiting

Merrie descended the steps of her broker’s London townhouse, turning right to walk purposefully down the street. The briefcase of money in her hand, she swung back and forth easily, making like a businesswoman on her way home from work. As a fine art thief, she played games with stealth, not only in isolation, but amidst a crowd.

As she walked, a dapper young man wearing a fine, tailored suit strode up beside her. “Good evening, Wedy,” he said.

She nodded, but didn’t speak. The man had used her professional name, but he’d otherwise given her no reason to acknowledge him.

“Would you have a few minutes to discuss an offer?”

Another glance, from the corner of her eye, before she looked back to the sidewalk in front of her. She took a small metal tin from her breast pocket and tossed a few tobacco leaves into her mouth. “What kind of offer,” she asked: a deliberate non-answer.

“The Queen’s watchdog knows of your occupation,” said the man with a casual tone, as though he was discussing nothing of importance. “Down to the exact amount in that briefcase.”

Merrie tried to resist the impulse to tense, but knew that to a discerning eye she would have failed. Regardless, her silence also betrayed her.

“You don’t need to worry,” the man flashed a smile.

“Because you’ll protect me?” she raised a wry eyebrow. “For a fee, of course.” Inwardly, she sighed: she could see where the rest of this conversation would go: the man would name his price, and she would go home to ‘think it over’. Afterward, she would find out through her contacts who he was, likely decide it wasn’t worth paying him, and deal with the Earl Lawliet herself. Still… most people who pulled this type of trick didn’t risk associating themselves with someone as powerful, or as capricious, as L.

“Oh, no,” the man said. “I wouldn’t hope to do something like  _ that _ .”

She spat bitterness into the street, then turned to the man. “You want something for the information, then?”

To her surprise, this time, he shook his head again. “No. In fact, Lord Lawliet is my master.”

She stopped walking, and he did too. The crowd, through which they had been pushing at a faster than average pace, now flowed around them like a creek round a stone.

“He doesn’t want you in prison,” said that same casual voice, smooth and thick like honey. The man looked at her, and gave a charming smile. “Instead, for a large, regular salary, he would like to employ you on a permanent basis.”

_ On a permanent basis… Why would he need to hire a thief under terms like that? _ Still, that wasn’t the most pressing concern. If L held her freedom in his hands now, he could ask anything he wanted from her. “Are there any conditions on this  _ offer _ ?”

Again, the shifting of auburn hair which accompanied a shaking head. “No conditions. My master has his reasons for this decision.” A smirk stretched his face, and a white-gloved hand extended for a handshake. “May I consider you interested?”

Only two more people in the crowd had passed around them when she took his hand and said, “You can consider that.” 

* * *

Thierry whistled a pleasant tune as he strolled through the streets of Paris, running his fingers through his delicate blond hair and pulling it back. He’d just finished a huge con job, out of which he’d gotten more than thirty thousand livres - over a year’s income for the country’s wealthiest landowners - in the span of only two months. 

He ducked into a bakery to purchase a snack, decided on a croissant, and was about to leave again when a young man came up beside him and spoke low into his ear. “I’d like to speak with you,” he said, “Theirry Morello.”

Thierry froze. He never gave out his real name during con jobs. In fact,  _ nobody  _ knew that name besides his brother. As he turned to look at the man, trying very hard to keep his shock off his face, he realized that despite his impeccable French, the man wasn’t even from this country. Nay, perhaps even this continent.  _ Is he Chinese or Japanese? _ Theirry’s brother would have no reason to associate with someone like this. “Of course,” Thierry said, even so; his voice was smooth and level. “Let’s find somewhere to sit, shall we?”

The man nodded, walking half a step ahead and leading them out of the bakery to an isolated bench on the opposite side of the street. He sat back on it, crossing his legs lazily and folding his white-gloved hands behind his head.

Thierry took a place on the bench at his side, his posture similarly at-ease despite how tense he felt. “May I get your name, sir?”

“Yagami,” he said. “Yagami Light.” He leaned one arm across the back of the bench, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Thierry’s artfully-stubbled cheek. 

_ Japanese, then. Odd first name, though. _ Before the young man pulled back too far, he kissed him back politely. “Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Yagami,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, please call me Aiber.”

Light simply nodded as he set his hands gently in his lap.

“So,” Thierry said, “You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes,” he replied, dispassionate amber eyes turning upward, watching a pair of doves that fluttered between rooftops. “I’ve come to offer you a job.”

Thierry’s ordinary response to such an offer would be  _ depends on how much you can pay _ , but he was anxious enough that Light knew his real name that he kept quiet. Anyone who was able to learn such information not only had specific leverage over him, they probably had a much broader-reaching power.

Speaking low, though there wasn’t anyone close enough on this uncrowded street to hear: “My master, Lord Lawliet, would like to purchase your services on an indefinite basis.” 

Hearing the name Lawliet, everything suddenly fell into place. Thierry had, of course, heard it before. The earl of Lawliet - known only by the letter L, since no-one (except perhaps the Queen, but maybe not even her) knew his real name - was unkindly but accurately referred to as the ‘queen’s watchdog’, a nickname given by dint of his power in the underworld. His purpose was to do the Queen of England’s dirty work, and he did this  _ excellently _ . Prior to his work for the Queen (which had begun around two years ago), he had been a private detective, and rumor had it that he’d never failed to solve a case. Rumor had it that he still hadn’t.

“I’m aware you currently work only as a con-man, but,” Light’s voice lowered further, until it was little more than a whisper. “You’ve also worked as an assassin, yes?”

Thierry nodded. It wasn’t worth denying. Of course L would know his life story, and have told it to this strange foreign butler.

“Perfect. See, my master needs a gardener, and a public face for his company which sells childrens’ toys. You seem to have all the necessary skillsets, so pending your agreement of course, we can sail to England on the next available ship.”

“You need a gardener and a spokesperson… and for that you require someone with experience as a con-man and an assassin?” A confused eyebrow raise was accompanied by a humorous smirk, as though he was anticipating Light to reveal it had been a joke, and he was hiring Thierry for a con-job after all. “Forgive my confusion, Monsieur Yagami, but this seems nonsensical.”

“My master thinks it would be a good idea to only employ servants who understand the workings of the underworld. Who wouldn’t release his personal information to untrustworthy people, no matter how much duress they might be put under. Who would be skilled at defending the manor, if it came under attack.” He smiled with pride, or admiration. “For my part, not that my opinion matters, I agree with him.”

_ Not that your opinion matters, huh? _ Thierry thought with a bemused smirk.  _ Why do I get the feeling you’re lying through your teeth, Light Yagami? _ “Ah, I see. Well, then. Will I negotiate my salary with you, or with the Earl?”

“With me,” Light stood quickly, effortlessly, like gravity was pressed lighter on him than on everyone else in the world. He stood before Therry, offering his hand. “Walk with me to the docks? We can discuss it on our way there.”

* * *

Grey, it was all grey. The thick concrete walls on three sides, the wrought-iron bars on the fourth, the metal toilet in one corner, the thinly-padded ratty down pillow sitting in the other. And right now, as most of the time, it was dark.

A figure of black and white stood in the center of the greyness, swaying slightly. The young man leaned forward, then back, rocking from heel to toe, then toe to heel. His black hair, which curled slightly at the tips like a large inkwell had been poured over his head and the drips had dried in place, hung loosely across unnaturally purple eyes, colored like they were meant to be blue before someone had spilled in a lot of red.

Beyond stopped rocking and turned his eyes from the wall to his hands, pressing them together and moving one up and one down. His palms made a staccato  _ fwip-fwip-fwip _ sound as he rubbed them, quickly at first, then slower, then faster again. He stared at his skin, ash-pale since he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. 

“Eight hundred fifty two days,” he muttered, “in five hours, it’ll be eight hundred fifty three.”

“Not unless you decide to stay,” said a voice that echoed down the hall, the sound crashing into him like a strong wind.

His hair spun about as he turned on his heel, leaping to the bars and peering through. A figure was outlined in the blackness, holding a torch like the ones the prison guards did, but moving with a gait far too elegant for a simple brute. Beyond hesitated to call out ‘who are you’ or something similarly stupid: he would know soon enough.

The man came into view slowly, but it seemed his face would be the last thing to come out of shadow. Even so, it was already obvious this couldn’t be an ordinary visitor - not that Beyond ever got visitors. The man was dressed in an elegant wool tailcoat, a double-breasted waistcoat with sterling buttons and a doubled length of silver chain trailing from second-to-last one to his watch-pocket, well-tailored perfectly-ironed dress trousers, and pristinely-polished shoes. All of it was black as the void between stars. 

The shoddy torch looked out of place in a white-gloved hand that was clearly meant to be holding a golden candelabra. Still, it wasn’t like there was  _ no _ gold on him: the torchlight danced through his auburn hair, making it into goldwork cloth. The red translucent letters floating incorporeally above that hair read  _ Light Yagami _ .

There were no numbers below that.

“Beyond Birthday,” Light’s tone was serious. “I’m here at the behest of my master to offer you a job.”

Beyond wasn’t listening. He took half a step back, hands sliding off the cold metal bars and lifting up to rub at his eyes. He looked again. No, it was still the same. “What the hell…” he said - aloud, since he was so used to talking to himself. “What’s wrong with my eyes? The only person whose numbers I can’t see is me…”

An amused chuckle: “My master was right.” Light took a step closer, staring at Beyond with eyes that were a very warm shade of amber, like they ought to have been brown before someone had spilled in red. “There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, don’t worry. And in fact, your special eyes are the reason I’m here, offering this position to you. You’ll get a regular salary, room and board are included-”

“I don’t care!” Beyond shouted, then stumbled sideways, vigorously shaking his head.  _ He’s offering to get me out of here. I want to know why my eyes aren’t working but I want to get out of here just as badly. _ He muttered, “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I just don’t- why do you-”

“You see names and numbers floating above peoples’ heads, correct? And you’re wondering why I seem to be missing my numbers.”

“Yes, Light Yagami. That’s right.” He stared back, mirroring Light’s posture, down to the tilt of his head. The strange man and his strange words unnerved Beyond, and he wanted to unnerve him back.

But Light just smiled, almost proudly. “It’s because I’m something a bit like you,” he said. “Not exactly the same, but similar. See, neither of us are fully human.”

Beyond swallowed in a dry throat. “Not fully human? What do you-”

“So far as I know, you’re a half-shinigami. One of your parents was a reaper. Which one, I’m not sure, but I could look into it.” Light shrugged as though to say  _ I’m willing to be easily persuaded on this. _

Beyond laughed, then, hard enough that his thin belly was quivering like a bowl of jam, leaning his head back as inky strands fell away from his face. “Ahh…” he said, tipping his head aside to look at Light, still a quarter of the way into a backbend and grinning widely, “Are you part-shinigami too, then? Or are you a shinigami yourself?”

“No,” Light replied coolly. “I have no relation to reapers, and as a matter of fact, I think they hate me.” His stare intensified, and the torchlight dimmed, plunging the hallway and Beyond’s cell nearly into darkness. Then Light’s eyes flashed briefly with a bright, brilliant red, and he gave a horrifyingly unnatural smile, like he was an inch away from phasing through the bars and eating Beyond whole. When he spoke, his tone was conspiratorially low, and burning hot like the flames of hell. “I’m a demon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: @booklovertwilight
> 
> This work has no set upload schedule (for now). Please hit the subscribe button at the top if you'd like to be updated with new chapters!  
> Thank you so much for reading ^_^ If you've enjoyed this story, kudos/comments mean a ton to me!


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